Torrential rains are expected today, with the possibility of severe winds developing in the afternoon.
Napoleon Solo was at the wheel of a blue convertible as he drove through the downpour. The rag top was torn where a knife had slashed through it in search of one of the occupants. Illya Kuryakin had been at the receiving end of that plunging weapon, and was holding onto consciousness as he slumped in the passenger seat.
"Hang on Illya, I'm going as fast as this little MG will take us." He shifted again, hoping to gain more speed from the car.
"It is unfortunate…coughing… to have damaged the top." He coughed some more, wincing at the pain it caused him.
"Don't talk Illya, just hang on."
Illya did hang on, as always, and was treated for the blood loss and sewn up where the knife had sliced into his back. It had missed his spine (the assailant's target), finding instead the deltoid muscle of his right shoulder. It would cause some limitations of movement for several weeks, but since the Russian was almost fully ambidextrous, he would not be severely handicapped.
Sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, Napoleon watched as patients were wheeled into the ER; the nurses and doctors crisscrossing the room as they ministered to the sick.
How many times had he been here? How many times had he waited while Illya was stitched up or lay fighting back the darkness of death? How many times had he himself been the victim of some life threatening event, leaving his partner to watch and wait?
How many times more would this scene repeat itself?
This life was one of commitment and denial. Commitment to the cause, and denial that each day might be his last.
"I defy death to take me or my partner. Not today, not any day."
"I'm sorry sir, did you say something?" The nurse had approached without Solo's being aware of her.
"What? No, I… well, no. Is my friend..?" She saw the concern and spoke before he could finish asking.
"He's fine, and he wants to talk to you. Seems we can't get him to admit he's actually hurt. How on earth…?" She didn't complete the question, something told her these men dealt with issues that she was better off not knowing about.
"He's in here, follow me."
Napoleon gathered up his partner an hour later and arranged for them to catch a flight back to New York. They'd be back home by morning, not much worse for wear. Illya would sleep all the way and Napoleon would pretend to enjoy flirting with the stewardess. In truth, his heart just wasn't in it.
To be honest, he wasn't sure where his heart was tonight. It for certain wasn't with the U.N.C.L.E.